Hot Southern Nights

by Patt Bucheister

  She continued showing the slides featuring chocolate desserts and candy confections made by herself and other experts. Each was more elaborate and exotic than the previous, drawing sounds of delicious agony and wonder from the audience. She announced the creator of each culinary masterpiece and the restaurant where they worked at the time the item had been created. When she came to the Victorian white chocolate baskets she'd made, she included the name of the hotel restaurant in New York where she'd been chocolatier and cake artist until a year earlier.

  It wasn't until she asked that the lights be turned on that she discovered why she'd felt edgy. The reason was standing in the back of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

  Dressed in a black shirt and tight blue jeans, Sam Horne exuded enough male presence to turn a few heads in his direction, even though he was standing behind the women and had done nothing to draw attention to himself.

  When he noticed Brett frowning at him, he smiled and nodded.

  Luckily, Brett had given similar lectures in the past and was able to field the questions from the audience with the section of her mind that wasn't wondering why Sam Horne was there.

  The women's comments and questions gradually wound down, and they gave Brett a polite ovation for her presentation. When she opened a cardboard box containing heart-shaped boxes made of white chocolate with tiny pink rosebuds and green leaves on each lid, the applause rose considerably. The boxes could be filled with candy or eaten as they were, she told them. The president of the group then announced that Brett had made the confections for everyone to take home with them as examples of the art of candy making.

  After the meeting was adjourned, several women came up to Brett to chat about some of the things they'd found fascinating, or to ask questions they had been too timid to raise earlier. Brett smiled and talked to the women, hoping she gave halfway intelligent responses to remarks that held only half her attention. Sam continued to watch her from the back of the room, and she continued to be aware of him every second.

  Kathryn Quill, the wife of her attorney, separated from a cluster of four women who had been examining their souvenir candy containers.

  "Brett, you are so clever," she said, gushing with a sweetness guaranteed to put even a honeybee in sugar shock. "I would never be able to make such complicated confections in a million, trillion years."

  Brett smiled stiffly. Kathryn Quill often specialized in being helpless, although she usually reserved that role for occasions when men were present. The only male in the room was too far away to hear Kathryn's soft, kittenish purr, which always grated on Brett's ears like fingernails on a blackboard.

  "I'm sure you would be able to do anything you set your mind to, Kathryn."

  The older woman flapped her hands in front of her, waving Brett's compliment away as though it were made of smoke. "You always have something nice to say about everyone. Just like your dear mother. What do you hear from Phillip? Is your father well?"

  "Quite well. The rain has slowed down the excavation of the Mayan ruin, but he's keeping busy translating the stone engravings on the steps he uncovered two months ago."

  Leaning forward, Kathryn lowered her voice and said in a confidential tone, "I know you miss him. But it's for the best, don't you think? Jud and I feel Phillip is better off keeping busy, so he doesn't have time to dwell on the loss of poor Melanie."

  Brett was saved from having to answer by the president of the club raising her voice to dismiss the group and remind them of the next meeting.

  Kathryn pressed her powdered cheek against Brett's and kissed the air. "We want you to come for dinner one night soon."

  "I'll try," she answered vaguely. "I'll call you."

  The lawyer's wife smiled and patted Brett's cheek before fluttering away. Wearing a yellow suit with matching yellow shoes, she made Brett think of a hyper canary.

  As the women trickled out of the meeting room, Brett began to gather her things. She was putting the slide carousel in its case when she became aware that Sam was approaching her.

  "How kind of you to wait so you can carry my equipment out to my van for me, Mr. Horne."

  Amusement glittered in his eyes. "Is that what I'm doing?"

  She handed him the rolled-up screen and the slide projector. "It is if you want to talk to me, which is obviously why you're here. Unless you've decided to change careers and take up catering."

  "I don't think so."

  "Pity," she said as she collected the empty box that had contained the souvenir candy boxes. "Catering would give you something to do between epics."

  "There isn't much demand for peanut-butter sandwiches and French toast."

  "Is that all you know how to cook?"

  "That's about it."

  Brett thought the combination was a bit odd, but it was his stomach, not hers.

  "If there was something you wanted," she said, "you'll have to tell me on the way out. I have a ton of things to do today, and I don't have the time to stand around and chat about the weather. Or Maddox Hill."

  "You found time to chat to those women about chocolate."

  Resigned to a delay, Brett took a deep breath and set the rest of the equipment back on the table. "These little lectures help business. I don't do as many as I did when I first took over the shop a year ago, but I still get invitations once in a while to speak to a group, and that never hurts sales. Plus, I get to show off some of the confections and chocolates I made when I worked in New York."

  "New York?"

  She smiled at the surprised look on his face. "I'm sure you've heard of it, Mr. Horne. It's a big city on the East Coast, has lots of people, the best bagels in the world, and Broadway plays. It's been in all the papers at one time or another."

  "I'm familiar with New York, Red," he said dryly. "I hadn't realized you had lived there."

  "You weren't listening very closely to my speech, were you? I mentioned the name of the hotel where I worked."

  "I was looking at the pictures," he said. "From what I saw a few minutes ago, you were damn good at creating those elaborate chocolate thingies. They looked too pretty to eat."

  A compliment of sorts, she supposed. "I still am good at making those thingies, as you so elegantly call them. There's just less of a demand for them here than there was in New York."

  "So why did you come back here to settle for something less than what you wanted?"

  "I never said I settled for anything," she said with more of a defensive attitude than she wanted to convey.

  "You didn't have to say it. I saw your face and heard the pride in your voice when you described your own creations."

  "So you were listening, after all."

  "I might have caught a word or two. I noticed all of your fancy stuff was when you worked in New York. I don't remember a single one being from your shop here in Fredericksburg."

  "Most of the women present have seen the type of things I sell at Southern Touch. I've found that audiences enjoy the more exotic designs, pieces they would never make, nor probably ever see unless they went to a large cosmopolitan city."

  "You still haven't said why you left New York."

  "Haven't I? It's probably because I don't think it's any of your business." Brett picked up the bag of equipment again after draping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "Either carry those things to my van or give them to me, Mr. Horne. The library has another meeting scheduled for this room and I have a busy schedule."

  She stepped around him and walked toward the door. Sam followed, carrying the things she'd handed to him. He didn't ask any more questions until they reached her store's van in the parking lot. A logo on the side announced the shop's name and displayed a paintbrush stroking a dab of color on a lollipop in the shape of a rose.

  After she unlocked the van, Brett slid open the side panel and set the bag inside. Sam didn't wait for her to take the rest of the equipment from him. He came alongside her and placed the screen and projector on t
he floor of the van. There was plenty of room for her belongings, but not all that much space for the two of them in the opening of the van.

  Brett turned to move out of the way at the same time Sam straightened beside her. For a few tense moments their eyes met and held, their expressions serious and intense. And puzzled.

  Sam lifted his hand to touch her face, running a knuckle gently over her cheek. "I wondered," he said aloud, although Brett had the impression he was talking more to himself than to her.

  "Wondered what?"

  "How your skin would feel."

  "Is this a type of scientific survey you do often?"

  He smiled and shook his head. "This is a first. I can't remember when I was this curious about a woman. You intrigue me, Red. I'm not altogether sure I like it."

  "Then perhaps you should find something you like to do and leave me alone." She tilted her head to one side and studied him. "Which part do you find curious, Mr. Horne? The bit about me turning down all that lovely money your production company has offered? Or why I wouldn't want hordes of people trampling all over my mother's plantation? Or is it just that you like to get your own way?"

  Instead of becoming irritated by her barely disguised sarcasm, he said, "All of the above and then some." The amused tone of his voice changed. "I'd like to talk to you."

  She sighed wearily. "I'm not going to change my mind, Mr. Horne. I'm sorry you and your staff are being inconvenienced, but you shouldn't have taken it for granted I was going to buckle under and let you on the property."

  Relentless as a mosquito, Sam attacked the problem. "Since you're familiar with the area, I was hoping you could suggest an alternative solution to our little problem."

  "Our little problem, Mr. Horne?"

  "Call me Sam. The way you say my last name makes me think you're picturing me with horns and a pitchfork."

  Brett glanced at her watch. "I've promised to stop by and see someone this afternoon. I can't disappoint her. Then I have a lot of work to do at the shop. I don't have much spare time today."

  "Would I be in the way if I came with you?"

  "Probably. Why would you want to waste your time riding around with me when you have a film to make?"

  "It's my time. And I wouldn't call being with you a waste of it."

  Brett thought about his request for a minute, then surprised them both by agreeing to take him with her. "I usually stay a couple of hours where I'm going. The woman I'm going to see has ancestors who lived in this area during the War Between the States. You can put the visit down as research if it will ease your conscience for taking time away from your film."

  "You certainly worry about my conscience a great deal," he said casually. "That's the second time you've mentioned it."

  Brett opened the driver's door of the van. "Someone has to. It doesn't seem to bother you all that much."

  It wasn't until he had settled in the passenger seat that he replied to her comment. "Why should my conscience bother me? I'm making a movie, not robbing a bank."

  She backed out of the parking spot and didn't answer until she had stopped at a red light.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

  He turned his head to look at her. "For what?"

  "You only want to do your job, and I've been giving you a hard time over something that isn't your fault."

  Sam had always considered himself intelligent, able to comprehend most situations without too much trouble. He certainly was having trouble understanding Brett Southern, though. And he wanted to, he realized. Very much.

  He didn't have a clue what she was thinking or feeling. What baffled him even more was that he couldn't figure out why it was important for him to know what made her tick. It was, though. So far she'd allowed only glimpses of the woman underneath, and Sam was determined to discover all of her.

  At least he understood the physical attraction drawing him toward her. He understood that it was more potent than anything he'd felt for any other woman. Every time he was with Brett, he plumbed new depths of the desire growing steadily between them.

  One way to find answers was to ask questions. "What isn't my fault?" he asked.

  She shook her head, "It doesn't matter."

  He wanted to pursue her puzzling remark, but he didn't feel this was the time to push. As she left the city limits he asked, "Where are we going?"

  "I'm going to visit my mother's closest friend, Abigail Nelson. Abbie lost her sight a little over a year ago from a flash fire on her stove. I try to see her at least once a week." She smiled. "Abbie taught me how to make my first batch of candy when I was about eight or nine. Her bakery in Old Town used to turn out the most fabulous cakes decorated with delicate flowers made from spun sugar and royal icing that were in great demand for weddings and showers. When I moved back to Fredericksburg, I took over the bakery she could no longer run after her accident. The arrangement benefited both of us. She still has an income and I didn't have to make many changes in order to convert to making candy."

  "So she's your silent partner?"

  "Once you meet her, you'll realize the word silent rarely applies to Abbie, but that's as good a term as any. Over the years she's taught me various tricks of the trade, which put me at the top of my class at culinary school. I've learned a great deal from her. It's a debt I'll never be able to repay."

  "I wondered how you got into the confectionary business." He chuckled. "And I'm also curious how you stay so slim. Don't you eat what you make?"

  "I have a friend in New York who's a sculptor. She uses clay and hasn't once been tempted to eat any of her work. I just use chocolate and royal icing instead of clay."

  "So you consider yourself a pastry artist?"

  "The title doesn't matter, the result does." Smiling, she added, "One of my instructors threw us bits of advice along with instructions on how to cool a copper bowl before whipping cream. His favorite was a Zen saying about the journey being more important than the destination."

  "The work is what's significant, not the product at the end," Sam said. "That's how it is with a film. I'm involved, challenged, and energized by the subject while I'm filming. Once it's finished, I always have a letdown feeling, almost an emptiness deep inside that isn't filled until I start another project."

  Brett was stunned by the insight into his emotions. She wanted to believe his revelation had been prompted by an honest desire to share a part of himself with her, rather than be suspicious about his motive in showing her his "sensitive side." She was going to have to reevaluate what she thought about Sam Horne, the director and the man.

  She turned off the main road onto a narrower street, taking the curves at a reasonable speed, easing around an indention in the road with practiced skill. Houses became fewer on either side of the road, then stopped altogether when she drove onto a gravel lane only wide enough for the van.

  If Sam didn't know better, he would have said the house at the end of the lane was where Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother lived. White gingerbread trim followed the lines of the eaves on the sprawling white one-story home, and along the roof and the railing on the porch. Plants grew in long narrow window boxes under each window, some of them still boasting blossoms of assorted colors. The three rocking chairs on the porch were painted different colors: one a bright red, another a brilliant blue, and the last an emerald green.

  Brett parked in front of the house and smiled when she saw him staring. "Abbie liked bright colors when she had her sight. Abbie's daughter and I just repainted everything the way it was when Abbie lost her sight so she can still visualize what is actually there."

  She tapped the horn twice, then paused and honked one more time. As she got out of the van the front door opened and Sam saw a woman about Brett's age come out onto the porch. She was strikingly beautiful, dressed in a light gray suit with a cameo pin at the collar of her immaculate cream silk blouse. Her skin was a warm coffee tone, and her jet-black hair was combed back and secured at her nape with a gray scarf.


  "I hope you brought Momma some candy, Brett," she called out. "She just finished that box of amaretto bonbons."

  Brett opened the side panel of the van and took out a large box similar to the one she'd taken to the library. Carrying it with both hands, she walked toward the porch where Elsa waited. Sam was right behind her, well aware that her friend was watching him with avid curiosity.

  At the bottom of the steps, Brett introduced them. "Elsa, I'm sure you've heard about the documentary that's being made about the battle of Fredericksburg. This is Sam Horne. He's the director of the film. Sam, this is Elsa Nelson. She's a pediatrician, and my best friend."

  Sam extended his right hand, stepping up onto the porch to greet Elsa. "It's a pleasure to meet one of Red's friends."

  Elsa glanced at Brett. "Red?"

  "He first saw me when I was wearing my red coat, so he thinks the nickname is cute."

  "And he's still alive?"

  "I've tagged him 'the Big Bad Wolf,' and since it's be-kind-to-animals week…" Brett shrugged.

  Sam scowled. "If you two are quite through, I'd like to add that I'm relieved to see Red has such a charming friend. So far she's only introduced me to Judson Quill."

  Elsa chuckled at the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. "Judson is an acquired taste. You have the town buzzing with excitement, Mr. Horne. Is it true you're going to use some of the local people in the documentary?"

  He nodded. "Mostly people who belong to re-enactment groups and their families. My producer practically danced on the ceiling when he heard they all have their own uniforms and firearms. He's able to save a small fortune by not having to supply their costumes and equipment. The main characters have all been cast, but we'll use local people for extras."